


I Am a Broken House

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Comment Fic, Community: daily_prompt, Female Character of Color, Fights, Gen, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aisha draws first blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am a Broken House

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the prompt '[rain running down the windowpane](http://dailyprompt.dreamwidth.org/118700.html)' at [](http://daily-prompt.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**daily_prompt**](http://daily-prompt.dreamwidth.org/) and [this prompt](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/347.html?thread=8795&style=mine#cmt8795) at [](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**the_losers_2010**](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/).

Aisha crushes the ant with the pad of her thumb but decides to let the spider go, watching it vanish beneath the bench as she blows the ant's remains off her thumb.

"Gonna kiss us better, too?" Roque says behind her.

She angles a look at him over her shoulder, feeling a sharp smile stretch her mouth. Then she swings a leg over the bench that she's seated on and stands. She's aware of Jensen perking up in her peripheral, Cougar more subdued at her left, and behind her, the sound of Pooch successfully rigging the hummer with a triumphant thump to the frame. Her eyes, though, are for Roque, who watches her approach with a poker-face calm save for the slow tap of his Bowie against the table.

"Pucker up, baby," she tells him, saccharine sweet, and throws a left cross that makes her blood _thrum_, clipping Roque on the chin because he expected her to lead with the right.

She doesn't disappoint him in the follow up. But before she connects, he catches her fist and twists, nearly wrenching her shoulder out of the socket. The pain flares, making her heart spike, making her gasp, making her skin tingle all the way to the tips of her fingers as he throws her onto the table. Her teeth clack together from the impact, and the sheath to Roque's Bowie digs into her back. It's not the knife, though; he doesn't get the pleasure of drawing first blood. That's her bounty to collect.

Jaw clenched and breath held, Aisha locks her legs around Roque's waist and fists her hands into the front of his shirt, simultaneously pulling and lifting. She snaps her head forward, hoping to shove the nasal bone into his skull and clean up all of the problems of the 'is he playing us or is he legit?' games that Clay seems so fond of. Aisha prefers precision, but the angle is off, and she gets a fist jammed into her ribs for the effort.

Her diaphragm contracts, tears welling in her eyes, and she chokes on the next breath, the fierce, wild beat of her heart stalling. Roque doesn't even have the grace to look pleased.

"Done playing?" he asks, screwing his fist harder into the muscle, each twist lighting through Aisha's torso and making her muscles twitch.

She grits her teeth and answers by smashing her elbow into his jaw, the blow sending a tingle through her arm that numbs her fingers. She rolls off the table and lands in a crouch, croaking on a quick inhale, gulping down air until she can feel her blood pump fast and hard again. She can't deny the thrill that skitters up her spine when she sees Roque go for the Bowie.

She springs to her feet when he steps toward her, the uppercut solidly connecting with Roque's chin. Coupled with a right hook, Aisha gets exactly what she wants, the thrill of success singing in her veins. Roque turns his head to spit out a glob of blood, wiping off the excess with the heel of his palm. Aisha feels her smile stretch like a wound. She always draws first blood.

Pooch's voice intrudes on the rush—"Are we taking bets or are you going to jump in there and start refereeing this match?"—while Aisha dodges the swing of Roque's blade, letting it cut air instead of skin. She's not ready to bleed for him yet. He has to earn the privilege.

"Let 'em fight it out," Clay says. Roque lunges, but the move is obvious, broadcasted in the way he plants his feet. Aisha counters by ducking beneath his arm. "Get it out of their system."

She catches his wrist, pivots, twists, and jerks his arm high up his back in a shoulder lock, shoving him onto the table.

"Along with a couple pints of blood?" Jensen asks. Aisha shoves Roque's hand higher toward his neck, feeling the strain of his muscles as he tries to resist. With enough pressure, she can dislocate his shoulder, and her heart beats faster in anticipation of the limp feel of his arm. But Roque plants a foot and tries to buck her off. "Because, uh"—She closes a hand around the back of his skull, digging her nails into his scalp, and slams his head into the table. She rubs her tongue against the roof of her mouth when she sees the splash of blood on his chin and slams Roque's face into the table again—"I think this just turned Street Fighter."

Roque rears back, plants his hands on the edge of the table, and pushes. He takes advantage of the momentum and keeps going, forcing Aisha to backpedal to keep her legs under her. He slams her into the side of the hummer, and the air rushes out of her lungs in one explosive breath. But Aisha isn't empty; she's charged, her nerves buzzing from the sharp slap of metal to her skin.

Jensen's voice emerges from the stillness—"Right. Of course"—and Aisha hisses in a breath when the tip of Roque's blade drags across her abdomen, her heart jackhammering, heat pooling in her gut. The cut is clean and quick, but the pain is slow, skipping through her nerves like a loose connection. "Aisha and Roque are in a killing frenzy, but we're going to turn"—She slams a fist into Roque's nose in repayment for the ticklish trickle of blood sliding down her skin—"away from the pay-per-view to watch the Home Shopping Network. Makes sense, you know." Aisha punches Roque's nose again, this time with her left simply for the symmetry. "We'll probably need new furniture anyway."

"Just tell me what you found, Jensen."

The skin over Aisha's knuckles splits on the third punch, and Roque grabs her wrist and throws her into the hummer again. She sucks in a breath, the scent of sweat and blood coating the back of her tongue, just before her head bounces off the glass.

Shadows creep into the corner of Aisha's vision, everything going numb and quiet for a second too long, long enough for Roque to tuck his blade under her chin and ask, "You done yet?"

The back of Aisha's head feels damp, a slow throb building in her skull. She swallows just to feel the nick of Roque's knife, runs her tongue across her teeth, and smiles. "But we're just getting started, baby."

She forces her nerveless fingers to close around the blade that she knows is hidden at Roque's back and cuts a gash across Roque's ribs when she pulls it free.

"Hey, Clay man?" Pooch asks. "The kids are running around with scissors now. You gonna stop them this time?"

The blood quickly stains Roque's shirt, and Aisha tosses his knife up, catching it with her left. "You want a matching set?"

Roque charges; Aisha's pulse spikes, and she drops into a crouch, tightening her fingers around the hilt, her mind already keyed in on jamming the blade into the soft tissue below Roque's ribs, her muscles vibrating like the move has already happened. Roque is going to cut her. She can see the motion of his arm, but she's going to get the bigger payout—

"Enough." Clay grabs her wrist and hauls her up and then turns and shoves Roque back. He looks Roque up and down and then fixes Aisha with a hard stare. "You two done bonding?"

"Almost done," Roque says, stepping forward. "Give us a few minutes."

Aisha drags her tongue across her knuckles, lapping at the blood splashed between each groove, and flashes Roque a smile that's all teeth.

"That was kinda hot," Jensen says. "Did anyone else think that was kinda hot?"

Clay presses his fingertips to Aisha's stomach, and she presses the sharp end of her blade to his wrist, meeting his arched eyebrow with a cool look. He takes his hand away and turns to Roque. She watches Clay run the pad of his thumb across Roque's wound and then shake his head.

"We know where Max is headed. Load up. We move out in ten minutes. Roque, with me."

Clay closes a hand around Roque's arm, mutters something into his ear, and Roque points his blade at Aisha, giving her a look that promises next time as Clay pulls him away. Aisha licks her knuckles again, the sharp tang making her heart jump. She can't wait.

In ten minutes, the team is packed, and they climb into the hummer, Clay insinuating himself between Aisha and Roque. Aisha catches a glimpse of white gauze peeking through the tear in Roque's shirt. The blood is already dry on hers, but the cut stings, her skin pulling apart with each subtle shift. She turns her eyes out the window and tongues her back molars, swallowing copper and heat and the scent of gun metal. Her blood drips down the glass like rain on a windowpane.


End file.
